


shake me up

by motorghost



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Birthday Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied Smut, Jesse McCree has a certain set of skills, M/M, Strip Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26260678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motorghost/pseuds/motorghost
Summary: Hanzo never wants anything for his birthday. Which is too bad for him, because Jesse loves birthdays.McHanzo Week 2020: Day 3 (Silly/Boogie)
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 12
Kudos: 174





	shake me up

**Author's Note:**

> This song isn't really appropriate content-wise for a strip tease but I love it so in it goes! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nin-fiNz50M
> 
> Also, this version of this song is... also relevant https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eHSjiBxufxc

Hanzo never wants anything for his birthday. Which is too bad for him, because Jesse loves birthdays. At his favorite foster home, they used to pull out all the stops: mass amounts of JELL-O with Cool Whip, the same lights they used no matter what the holiday strung along every doorway, and king-for-a-day privileges. Jesse and his friends got to watch as many westerns as he wanted while the adults filled up the above-ground pool. Then it was hot dogs and punch stains and howling until they all collapsed into a sugary mess. And it always started with the biggest surprise.  
  
Now his tastes are a bit more mature, but he still loves a surprise, and Hanzo is the perfect target: straight-laced, serious. Never whimsical or mischievous, except for rare moments. He never asks for anything, he never treats himself (unless it's something that could be better described as a binge,) and he certainly doesn’t get into celebrating birthdays. It's a gift for Jesse, really; the cowboy spends weeks trying to figure out what he can do for Hanzo that is suitably jarring without scaring the man right out the door.   
  
As usual, he goes with his gut.

When Hanzo returns to their little rental outside of Medellín on the night of his birthday, he finds Jesse in full gear (serape included) minus the hat and chest plate, holding a tiny spherical speaker with a look on his face that can only mean trouble.

Hanzo sets his bag down slowly, as if it had suddenly become much, much heavier. “Was breakfast-in-bed not enough for you?”

“It’s all for _you,_ sweetheart.” Jesse sets the speaker down on the coffee table, then puts the heel of his boot on one of their dining chairs and shoves it towards Hanzo until it skids to a stop by his feet. “Siddown.”   
  
“How much more of this must I endure,” Hanzo mutters as he takes his seat.

Jesse pours a glass of Hanzo’s favorite whiskey into a heavy crystal glass and hands it off with a wink. “You just relax. Ol’ Jesse has got it all in hand.”  
  
“Old Hanzo is getting too old for this.”   
  
“Now remember when you talked how you used to go out with the clan brothers sometimes? To the shows?” Jesse switches off the main room light until the only illumination comes from two table lamps that Hanzo only now notices are covered in red scarves.   
  
He swallows, holding the whiskey like it might be a bomb. “Yes.”   
  
Jesse crosses the room to close the drapes. “And remember how you said you never got to go to the shows that had male dancers?”   
  
Hanzo stiffens as dark foreboding overwhelms his entire body. “Jesse.”   
  
“And remember,” Jesse stretches out a shoulder as he walks towards Hanzo, smirking like the devil, “how I told you I once posed as a pole dancer for an undercover mission?”

Hanzo’s eyes dart around the room as he tries to identify the spot from where a pole might suddenly emerge. “Jesse. Why.”

The cowboy takes Hanzo’s drink, whispers, “Hush,” takes a sip so large that Hanzo wonders why he didn’t just get his own drink, then returns it to Hanzo and swaggers back towards the coffee table. “You got exactly one job right now, darlin'.” Jesse turns, taps the speaker, and a subtle beat erupts in all four corners of the room, the sound-throwing technology wrapping sound around Hanzo until he feels like he’s been tied to his chair. “And that’s to sit back and enjoy.”

Hanzo does sit back, but it’s more a byproduct of him gripping the ends of the chair’s arms to brace for what’s about to happen. He watches Jesse take his hat from the couch and put it on his head, slow and easy while an electric guitar taps out a low, funky wind-up. When he turns, he’s grinning with all the confidence Hanzo knows him for. “Now you ain’t allowed to touch, but don’t let me catch you lookin’ elsewhere.”

Then the beat drops, the drums join, the guitar takes off and then so does Jesse. He turns, lets his serape fall to the floor and Hanzo’s face threatens to crack as Jesse cockily (and, Hanzo is endeared to see, a bit self-consciously,) slide-steps towards Hanzo, proving he can at least keep to a beat. The few times Hanzo has seen Jesse dance was when he was moving in a strange grid pattern, alone, with a series of strange twists and small kicks. This is only slightly less embarrassing.

But it leans towards tolerable when, as the singer mimics the whine of an iron guitar string, Jesse smoothes his hand up his torso, dragging up the tail of his shirt until it almost exposes his pecs, then letting it go as the whine explodes into raunchy, calloused, southern-rock singing. His hips start gyrating the same way they do whenever Jesse is riding Hanzo’s dick and Hanzo’s dick rouses with Pavlovian recognition.

Which Jesse seems to notice with his own kind of Pavlovian response. “That’s it,” he cooes, cocking his pelvis with way too much expertise for a former black ops agent. “You get it now.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hanzo mutters, crossing his legs.

Jesse just mouths along to the words: _your pride and my pride… don't waste my time..._ Then he starts popping buttons, touching himself in-between like it’s both the best-feeling and most difficult thing he’s ever done.

The cowboy’s little hints at skin, his teasing—it all somehow makes Hanzo feel like he’s seeing Jesse’s body for the first time. Or at least in a whole new light. Hanzo takes a generous sip from the glass in his hand and lets his eyes canvas Jesse’s barrel-chest, the emerging hair between his round pectorals, the broad cut of his hips as they jolt inside annoyingly-tight jeans. That round ass perfectly framed by weather-beaten chaps.

The music is a little dark, a chunky blues-rock rhythm that matches Jesse pretty well, especially when he’s got his hat low over his eyes and he’s bouncing along to what Hanzo can tell is the chorus: _I don’t wanna fight no more, I don’t wanna fight no more…_

“We haven’t fought in some time,” Hanzo says with his eyes on the floor.

“I know,” Jesse drawls, peeling his shirt away only a few inches from Hanzo’s face. “But tonight I wanna be extra-sweet.”  
  
It takes Hanzo a moment to even comprehend what Jesse is saying. “I can do that,” he mutters, stupidly, his right hand white-knuckling the armchair as Jesse drapes his shirt around Hanzo’s shoulders.

Jesse grins and whispers, “Good,” before turning around, putting his hands on Hanzo’s spread knees, and gyrating like he’s digging for oil.  
  
Hanzo immediately puts a hand on Jesse’s lower back and Jesse slips away. “Ah, ah,” Jesse snickers, moving both arms above his head and twisting his body, hypnotizing Hanzo, “I said no touchin’.”   
  
_“Tch.”_ Hanzo re-grips the armchair until it creaks. It’s remarkable how quickly his dread towards Jesse’s dance transformed into a desperation for it to never end, but he can’t blame himself. He had no idea Jesse had this kind of skill. He sweeps back behind Hanzo’s chair, trailing his hand, then spins until he can do a backbend, draping his soft hair in Hanzo’s lap. He grins upside-down and, with one hand reaching back to brace on the chair, reaches down to grab himself through his jeans, hips rolling smooth.

Hanzo can feel the burn in his face but all he can think about is Jesse’s body and how much he wants to touch. What should be uncomfortable in stiff jeans and cowboy boots looks unbearably easy and Hanzo is reminded once again just how irritatingly comfortable Jesse seems, no matter what he’s doing.

They haven’t fought in awhile, but Hanzo sometimes still feels strange urges to scold or dismiss or otherwise bite at Jesse. Maybe it’s to make sure he’s real—to take the inevitable bite-back as proof he’s dealing with a man who doesn’t care who Hanzo is nor what he can do to him. But it probably has a lot more to do with Hanzo balking at the acute rush in his gut whenever Jesse so much as looks his way, those honey-brown eyes soft and hard at the same time, lips curved into a grin or a sneer, boldness and cleverness all wrapped up in a package as tender as it is dangerous. All of it seemingly designed to undo Hanzo from bottom up.  
  
But he’s biting at his own edges now, and that’s even more thrilling. As Jesse starts unzipping his jeans, Hanzo drags his bottom lip through his teeth and mutters, _“Jesse,”_ reaching for himself in his trousers.   
  
Then Jesse rips away the jeans entirely, leaving just the boots and the chaps, and Hanzo almost chokes; Jesse’s metal arm is strong, but that must’ve hurt. “Son of a bitch,” he wheezes in Japanese.

“I pre-ripped the seams,” Jesse snickers, rolling his now-bare ass on Hanzo’s crotch.  
  
“You’re—” but Hanzo has no single answer for what Jesse is.

Jesse looks over his shoulder, now genuinely working up a sweat as he dresses Hanzo and his chair in all the attention both can handle. The urge to not merely touch but grab, _clutch,_ rocks through Hanzo as cuttingly as the whining funk guitar. It doesn’t help that Jesse is clearly growing harder by the second while that cunning grin grows more and more enticing. 

The singer wails, _I don’t wanna fight no more,_ over and over until she winds down to a tired whisper and Jesse finishes by dramatically falling back over Hanzo's lap, belly-up. 

“You will never stop surprising me, will you?” Hanzo can’t help the mix of ruefulness and pleasure in his voice.   
  
But Jesse is too cocky not to take it as the compliment it’s meant to be. “Show’s not over yet, sweetness,” he chuckles. A new song picks up and he rises, smoothing a hand up his torso until he’s pinching his nipple. “I got a couple more layers to go.”   
  
They never get that far. Jesse does a move where he straddles Hanzo backwards, leans forward until his hands are flat on the floor, and rocks his hips back in a way that makes the small of his back look like target practice and Hanzo declares that, since it’s his birthday, he gets to do whatever he wants, and what he wants is to seize Jesse’s hips and eat him out to the tune of Stand By Your Man.

Later, when the room is sprinkled with cowboy gear and Hanzo’s clothes alike, both men drape over one another on the couch with plates full of strawberry cake and glasses full of dry bourbon and Hanzo can’t quite keep from smiling.  
  
“That was a bold bet,” he mutters.

Jesse looks up from spooning only frosting into his mouth and grunts, “Huh?”  
  
“The bet that I wouldn’t simply run out of the room the second I found out what you were planning.”   
  
Jesse grins back down at his cake and shrugs. “Big risk, big reward.”   
  
Hanzo huffs as he toys with the worn flap on one of Jesse’s boots. “Was this present really for _me?”_

“Presents ain’t over. Customarily, when you really wanna do a birthday right, you celebrate for the whole month.”  
  
Hanzo looks at Jesse. “That isn’t real.”   
  
“Sure is.”   
  
“You can’t threaten me with a whole month of surprise gifts.”   
  
“Use the safe word, then.”

"Jesse."

"What if I told you," Jesse licks the corner of his grin, "That I made a list long ago of things you said you never got to do when you were younger, but would be willin' to try? And what if I said that none of those surprises involve a party with more than..." Jesse tilts his eyes up to momentarily count, "Five, no—six people?"  
  
Hanzo picks apart his cake with his fork, trying to hide his smirk. He's never seen Jesse brimming with excitement like this. And that it's all aimed at making him happy, well.

“Do your worst."


End file.
